


The Last Thing Your Eyes Shall See

by Scattyuk



Category: Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22988797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scattyuk/pseuds/Scattyuk
Summary: Moments and musings as Agatha and Dracula tease each other’s deaths.
Relationships: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing, Dracula/Zoe Van Helsing
Comments: 13
Kudos: 63





	The Last Thing Your Eyes Shall See

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in a fit of inspiration when I realised that Agatha’s words and expression didn’t match in Ep 2. Then I got distracted for a while. It hasn’t been beta’d but wanted to get it posted anyway.

“The last thing your eyes will see, is the contempt in mine!”

But there was no contempt. None at all. There was triumph; a barely contained elation. A victorious, vindictive grin, tinged with respect for her defeated foe. The winner taking all, her own life included.

She hadn’t flinched when he stood before her, naked and streaked with blood, and she didn’t flinch now, as the growl curled up from his chest, his teeth bared in anger and his hand gripping her face. In the moment of the first explosion he had felt himself go cold, as true fear gripped him for the first time in centuries. Now a fiery heat flushed up from his feet, his eyes locked with his very own angel of death.

They might have died, together, like that, had the next explosion not broken the spell. As he fell into his trunk, digging his fingers into the earth beneath him, and feeling the whole ship rock as the hull fractured, he wondered if _his_ face was the last thing _she_ saw. Whether she died with the imprint of his glare before her. He rather hoped she had; that she carried him with her into the world beyond.

So it was a shock, it really was, so much time later (although it felt very little time indeed), to walk onto that beach and see her smiling – still smug, a little exhilarated. Eternally pleased with herself.

“Welcome to England, Count Dracula. What kept you?”

*

Had Agatha been with her in that moment? Zoe’s smile, he realised later, was muted. Her flashes of triumph shadowed by whatever ate at her guts (the cancer, guilt, if he had to guess he’d say both.) He would have followed her later, had meant to do so, had wanted to spend longer teasing apart where Agatha’s clarion call ended, and Zoe’s echo began. To determine whether the echo was not just as fascinating in her own right. But one conversation on the way to London, with a girl in a sequin dress whose nihilistic smile gurgled down the line, and the thought was gone.

*

Patience had never been one of his particular virtues. But it had been a long way from Budapest to Varna by coach; still longer to await the ship and near three weeks more until she was found. He had learned new depths of restraint with Agatha. It stood him in good stead, as he sampled Lucy Westenra, little by little, month after month. If Agatha had been there he might have thanked her. Then again, if Agatha had been there he might have preferred her sharp barbs to Lucy’s cynical laugh.

So he wasn’t entirely disappointed when Zoe arrived in Lucy’s stead. Still less so when her accent briefly shifted and the Dutch flickered through. Perhaps he could have them both, he thought for a span of minutes, until Lucy vanished in a burst of dust. But any regret he felt was wiped out in five words.

“That’s it! That is everything!”

And the world narrowed until all he could see was Agatha van Helsing’s smile.

*

 _Agatha_. If he had been able to look away, perhaps he would have seen what she was about to do. But then came the searing, blinding light, the agony of anticipated pain, that somehow never struck. And her voice, her words, needling and interrogative, self-righteously goading.

“ _Agatha?_ ”

She - _they_?- stood in semi silhouette, call and echo perfectly harmonised, piercing him in the heart, tearing him open because _she knew him_. He had stood naked before her and a phalanx of chanting women, but he had never felt so stripped, so defenceless. He had never once questioned who or what he was. Until now.

She had every right to triumph. But there was none in her voice. Not this time. She fell into his chair, dismissive at last. “Crawl back to your box of dirt, Count Dracula. The game is over. You lose.”

*

He stood, utterly transfixed by an awe he had never felt, dead or alive. How could he have forgotten this sight?

“It’s beautiful. Look, Agatha. Beautiful.”

She had stumbled as she tried to rise. His arm was all that kept her on her feet. Her head rested against his shoulder.

“Beautiful,” he said once more, but this time he was looking at her. What would it be like, he wondered, if the last thing he saw _was_ the look in her eyes? Would it be as glorious as to burn in the light of the sun?

“What took you so long to see it?” he asked her, holding her face, tipping her gaze to his.

She smiled. “Never rush a nun,” she said in Zoe’s voice. But after a moment the smile faltered on a sharp breath.

_You’re in pain._

“I'm equal to it,” she had said. But _he_ wasn't. Not to watching.

He glanced once more towards the sun, and then back to her eyes and leaned to brush his nose gently against hers, to touch his lips to her skin. Well, he reflected, as he lifted her into his arms, why not both?

*

“You’re drinking my blood.”

“Yes.”

“But it’s deadly to you. You’ll die.”

His voice was soft over the gentle roaring of the sun above them. “So will you. After all this time, did you think I would let it hurt?”

She should have felt breathless, her body still ringing with sensation, as he eased down beside her and pulled her back into his arms, foreheads gently touching. But everything was simultaneously more and less than real in this netherworld.

“Why?” she asked.

“You know why,” he replied, fingers running through her hair. “And it’s fitting, don’t you think? How could an obsession that crossed so many lifetimes end any other way?”

She angled her head to kiss him and carefully moved her hand. If she concentrated, she could feel both the silk sheets, and cold hard glass, beneath her arm as she twined her fingers with his. The burnished sun still blazed, but her vision was shifting to grey around the edges. “Look at me,” she whispered. And his eyes found hers as the world faded to black.

*

“Jack, are you sure about this?”

“You can see - the curtains are open, she must have done it.”

“But then why hasn’t she called?”

“Maybe she can’t. Maybe she collapsed.”

“Maybe you should never have let her leave the hospital,” Bloxham bit out, working her pins carefully, prosthetic thumb not withstanding. “They’ve had her on fucking diamorphine for the last week, she needs round the clock care. So _fucking_ irresponsible.”

“With respect, Dr Bloxham, you’re the one who owns a lock pick.”

The door swung open, and any reply she might have made died on her lips. A strangled choke emerged from Jack’s throat. Bloxham surged forward.

“Don’t touch him!”

She paused, hand inches away from the finely tailored suit, and looked back. “Why not?”

“Lucy – Lucy turned to dust,” Jack forced out. “What if he … disintegrates?”

“He won’t, if Harker’s report was accurate,” Bloxham replied, but her hand fell to her side. Instead she simply looked, as Jack came to join her.

“Oh God,” he murmured. And in silence, they both stared, at the linked hands, the two pairs of empty, facing eyes. The gentle smile on Zoe’s lips.


End file.
